


The Midnight Special

by Penwyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penwyn/pseuds/Penwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some say that Draco Malfoy killed a man in cold blood; others say that he killed a man in self-defence. Either way, his only wish for Christmas Eve is that the Dementor’s Kiss is painless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Midnight Special

**Author's Note:**

> For emansil_12 on Livejournal, for the H/D Owlpost 2013.

Draco Malfoy had killed a man. There was no doubt about that.

It happened at Christmas, five years after the war was over. He had been placed on probation for war crimes after the Second Wizarding War, and he had been grateful for the leniency the Wizengamot had shown him. Seven years of probation with limited magic, seven years of keeping his wand and his tongue in check, and his record would be expunged. A Dark Mark did not necessarily imply guilt, after all, and Harry Potter had vouched for the whole damned Malfoy family, so they let Draco out into the world.

He had been doing so well.

Draco hardly remembered anything about that night, the night he killed a man. The Wizengamot had said that it was in cold blood, but it hadn’t been; he knew that much for a fact. They threw him into Azkaban for criminal violation of his probation, and the trial sentencing him to being Kissed had been swift even if it had taken a long time to come.

One year after he struck a man down in the snow, his hand shaking as blood dripped from his fingers, he was to be Kissed at midnight on Christmas Day.

*  
 _24 December, 2003  
Morning_  


Draco shivered and drew his coat more tightly around himself, burying his red nose in the warmth of his scarf and fidgeting nervously on Harry Potter’s front porch. He’d smashed in the doorbell— _how hopelessly Muggle_ —at least fifteen times, and he was considering transfiguring a screwdriver to dismantle the hinges before the doorknob twisted and an extremely pregnant Ginny Weasley pulled it open.

“Merlin’s fucking _pants_ , Draco,” she snapped at him, stepping aside and waving him indoors. “For such a high-bred git, you’re awfully rude.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow at her and took in the sight of her, feeling some affection for her in her oversized sweater with her enormous belly hanging low around her hips. She wasn’t handling pregnancy very well; it made her incredibly fierce, and he’d have admired it if she wasn’t so often directing that ferocity in his direction. “I’m sorry, pet,” he teased, and he considered ruffling her hair before deciding that he valued his hands. “It’s only a few more weeks, isn’t it?”

Ginny shut the door behind him and waddled in the direction of the couch, her hands pressing at the small of her back. “A few more weeks too long. I wish he’d come early.” She sounded so tired, and Draco trailed after her to help her get settled down on the couch. When she sat down, he lifted her feet onto the Ottoman and sat next to them, warming his cold hands on her toes under the guise of rubbing her feet. “You don’t have to do that, Draco.”

He scoffed and kept at it, feeling warmth seeping into his fingers. “Someone’s got to relieve Potter of his wifely duties, I think,” he said with a grin. “Where is he, anyhow? He agreed to come shopping with me.”

“Should be home soon. He had to run to the office. I think he’s trying to get all his cases solved in record time so no one bothers us in hospital when I go into labour.” Her toes stretched under his fingers, and he smiled at her.

It hadn’t been easy, making friends with the Potters, but he’d managed it somehow. It had begun with Harry returning his wand in an unusually polite display of manners, followed by a number of accidental encounters. Draco had seen him everywhere—the pub, the Ministry, Diagon Alley, everywhere—until he was certain that something was trying to crash them together. Whether it was fate, destiny, some sadistic bastard pulling strings, or chance, he didn’t know, but he’d followed up on it.

They’d been solid friends for two years now, and Draco was confident that he was making his way into best friend status. Ginny had been the harder sell of the two of them, nervous of the way Lucius had inserted himself into her life when she was a child, but Draco had won her over eventually with his charm and cemented his place in her heart with pregnancy foot rubs. The positively mental things that he was willing to help her cook to satisfy her odd cravings had helped matters, too. He adored her spirit (not to mention her abilities on a broomstick), and had spent many an afternoon on the couch with her while Potter worked.

Potter was another matter entirely.

They passed the time together in amicable conversation until the front door opened, and Potter stepped inside with a shiver; Draco saw evidence in his hair that the snow which had been threatening them all morning had finally started pouring, and he glanced out the window. “Most people Apparate into their own homes, Potter. You’ll have to believe me when I say that you’re _actually a wizard_.” He felt gratified when Ginny gave a mock-horrified gasp beside him, and he grinned.

“Stuff it, Malfoy. I’m going to find something warmer, and we’ll go.”

Draco watched with despair as Harry tracked mud and snow through the house, seeing Ginny teetering on the edge of a screaming fit over it, and he hastily retrieved his wand from his pocket and vanished the mess. He was still allowed household charms, after all, and he didn’t want Ginny getting up to go looking for her own wand. “Will you be all right today?” he asked, giving her stomach a nervous glance. “If you want me to send him out with a list, I will be happy to—”

“Draco, if you and Harry don’t give me an afternoon by myself before the party tonight, I will actually murder both of you,” she said sweetly. It was no secret that Ginny despised feeling helpless, and she got twitchy when Harry started hovering. “Are you coming?”

Draco heaved a sigh. “I suppose,” he said, feigning disinterest. In truth, he was looking forward to his first Weasley party; he’d been sent an invitation from Molly after he and Harry had run into her while shopping for Ginny’s Christmas presents. They’d had a lovely lunch, and he’d been surprised by a letter from Molly the next morning. He couldn’t exactly refuse their generosity, not when he was so invested in the Potters.

Heavy footsteps came down the stairs, and Draco stood from the Ottoman as Harry stepped into the living room, heavily bundled. “Let’s go,” he said, and he nodded his head towards Ginny. “If you need anything, send your Patronus, and I’ll give your husband back.”

Ginny grinned. “Get out.”

Harry looked torn as Draco headed for the door, but he nodded his head and went to kiss Ginny on the cheek before he followed. Draco opened the door and winced at the sheer amount of snow coming down, but he stepped out into it and through the wards surrounding the house before he offered Harry his arm. “Shall we?”

Harry’s hand took his elbow, and he turned on the spot.

Shopping with Potter wasn’t the most exciting affair, even the day before Christmas, but Draco was glad to do it. They picked through the shops in Diagon Alley, Draco choosing presents for Molly and Arthur while Harry got excited over children’s toys, and when they were heavily laden with gifts for their families, Draco watched as Harry shrank the lot and tucked the parcels into his jacket. He was envious of magic that he wasn’t allowed to do until the end of his probation, even though the trace was only on his own wand, and he considered asking Harry for his so he could perform the charms himself. He knew that Harry would never agree; he was an Auror, after all.

“Let’s not go home yet,” he suggested. “Let’s get some hot chocolate. I think Ginny’s going spare with you hovering over her all the time.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry said with a smile. “I’m going to be a dad.”

“That’s just what the world needs, more Potters.” Draco mock-gagged and stuck out his tongue, catching a mouthful of snow as Potter dumped a handful of it over his head. He sputtered. “You’re impossibly rude. You’re going to be a dreadful father.”

Harry returned his grin, and some of the chill melted away from Draco. He swallowed hard, and he dragged Harry down the street so they could get something warm to drink, wanting to linger out as long as he could. There was no chance in hell he’d get any one-on-one time with Harry at the party that evening, and Christmas Day was right out. As fond as Ginny was of him, he knew that he’d be beaten out of the house with a rolled-up newspaper if he tried to spend Christmas Day there.

They got their hot chocolate and took to the streets, cupping their takeaway mugs in their fingers and holding them close to their noses for warmth. Bells sang through the cold air, and people rushed around them in their hurry to find their last gifts for their families; this was Draco’s very favourite time of year. Despite the stress of the crowd, there was a sense of excitement running through the whole scene, a sense of wonder, and he stopped to watch children linger before the shop windows, gazing covetously at the displays within.

He remembered being so excited for Christmas as a child, remembered stopping before every shop and pointing out racing brooms to his father. As he got older, Christmas morning had lost much of his lustre, but Christmas Eve was still just as lovely. Despite himself, he still had some hope in his heart that he’d get exactly what he wanted.

He stopped in front of the window of the broom shop and stared over the children’s heads at the new racing broom, and he smiled, reaching out to touch the window. Harry would be opening the newest model the very next morning, wrapped in a single, silver ribbon, and he’d see who sent it and know how Draco felt.

He didn’t expect that such a thing would tear Harry from the arms of his loving wife, and he didn’t really want it to. He was in love with Harry Potter, but Harry wasn’t in love with him. He was building a family, building towards his future, and Draco was glad to just be a part of that. He had Astoria, after all, and he was going to have a family someday, too.

They were friends. That was enough. It had to be enough.

He felt a hand brush between his shoulders, and he looked back to see Harry smiling at him. “We’ve got to keep moving, or we’ll freeze,” Harry advised, and Draco nodded his head. “Are you coveting a new broom, Malfoy?”

Draco drew away from the window and fell into step beside Harry, smiling. “I might be,” he said smugly. “Perhaps you’ll get me one for Christmas.”

Harry rolled his eyes and snorted. “Hardly. You’re getting coal, Malfoy.”

“I think it’s fitting; I’m a terribly naughty boy.” Draco squawked when a child nearly took him out by the knees in a rush through the street, and he rescued his hot chocolate before he took a deep breath. “You should really pay my other a visit. She adores you, you know. It would make her Christmas.”

Harry bit his bottom lip and nodded his head. “All right. Let’s go.”

“Wait, what?”

Harry grabbed his arm and twisted, and Draco yelped as he was ripped from his spot in the middle of the street. When they landed before the Malfoy Manor gates, he scrambled to keep the hot chocolate in his hands from spilled everywhere, and he turned to snarl at Harry only to see him looking resolute in steeling himself to see Narcissa. “I didn’t mean _now_ , you prat.”

“If not now, then when?” Harry asked, and he stepped through the gates with Draco, walking up the snowy lawn towards the front door of the Manor. Draco didn’t have an answer for that, so he simply walked along with him.

Draco didn’t like coming to the Manor very often himself; it held too many horrifying memories, and he’d been unsuccessful in getting his parents to look into a different home. It was the ancestral home, after all, and the Malfoys belonged there. Draco thought that he did not; instead, he belonged in a warm, small home that had never suffered a Dark Lord’s presence. He wanted a home filled with love.

When they walked through the front door, warmth enveloped them so totally that Draco sighed and tilted his face towards the ceiling, a smile on his lips. Harry looked over at him, and when Draco met his eyes, he nodded his head and touched his hand. “You know where the parlour is.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

Draco shook his head. “Not this time,” he said.

*  
 _24 December, 2004_  


Draco didn’t want to open his eyes.

It was so cold in his cell at Azkaban that he was shivering beneath his filthy blanket, and when he did open his eyes just enough to peek, he could see his breath and see that the ever-present puddle of water on the floor was frozen over. A hysterical thought stole over him, that he might be able to ice-skate down the nasty halls of this god-forsaken place, and he turned his face into his cold pillow.

It was Christmas Eve, Draco’s favourite day of the year, and it was the last day that he was meant to have a soul. He didn’t want to get out of bed, but he thought that he had some sense of obligation to himself to do so; he couldn’t spend his last day in bed.

His bare feet hit the freezing floor and he hissed, climbing out of bed and going to the small window overlooking the riotous sea. The sky was heavy with clouds, and snow was falling into the sea; he reached his hand through the bars and felt the snow fall and melt on his palm. How he wished to be ringing Potter’s doorbell, freezing and indignant on his doorstep. He’d greet James and Ginny when they opened the door, gift in hand for the boy, and he’d steal Potter away for shopping and hot chocolate.

It made him sick to think about it.

Prison did not suit Draco, not one bit. He was too thin and sick with stress, his cheeks hollow and his skin filthy. His hair hung in mats around his face, and on the days that the water on the ground was melted, he could see how large his eyes looked in his face. Azkaban did not need Dementors roaming the halls to suck the cheer from its prisoners.

Just thinking of Dementors made his knees weak, and he sat down hard on his uncomfortable bed. He raked his fingers over his face and tried to calm down; Potter was working on it, he’d said. He’d said that he would get the decision overturned, that he wouldn’t rest until Draco’s appeal had been heard and accepted. 

Harry had written every day this month. Draco could hear the guard coming down the hall, dispensing mail, and he got off the bed to plaster himself to the bars they’d installed since they’d removed the Dementors from their posts as guards. He pressed his face between two of the bars, and he stared at the familiar guard with anticipation.

He was met with a sneer, and he shook his head. “Nothing for you today, Malfoy,” he said with sadistic amusement in his voice. “Seems they’ve said their goodbyes.”

Draco fell back from the bars, to his bed. For the first time, he wept.

*  
 _24 December, 2003  
Afternoon_  


The gardens of the Manor were impossibly beautiful during the winter. They were lovely when they were in full bloom, of course, but when everything was covered in snow and glimmering, Draco thought that they were at their full potential. Little icicles weighed down the edges of leaves covered in white, so delicate that they broke off at the slightest touch of his fingers, and he picked at them for what seemed like hours before he came upon a bench. He wiped the snow off of it and sat down, moving his feet in the snow and listening to the fairies hidden in the bushes chattering to one another.

Harry came into the clearing in the gardens as Draco was beginning to wonder what exactly he was discussing with Narcissa, and he lifted his head to smile at him. “Did you get lost?” he teased.

“Not hardly,” Harry said, sitting down on the bench next to him. Draco clapped his hands and ordered the house elf who appeared to bring them more hot chocolate, then he wrapped his arms around himself and looked at Harry again. “Have you been out here for very long?”

“Long enough to be half-dead,” Draco said. “What did you talk about?”

Harry was usually forthcoming with this information; he visited Narcissa every few months and let her know about the status of his growing family, and he usually regaled Draco with every line of conversation. This time, however, he merely frowned and looked away. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Just how things are going.”

Draco wasn’t satisfied with that answer, and he scowled at Harry, only looking away to accept the hot chocolate brought to them by the house elf. He brought it to his lips and sipped at it before he pursed his lips. “Things?” he asked quietly.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, blowing at his own hot chocolate and watching the steam rise from the mug. “I don’t know, Draco.”

“You don’t know what?” he asked, pressing him.

Harry looked at him then, his brow creased, and he chewed on his lip for a moment before he reached over and brushed some of the snow from the top of Draco’s head; Draco blinked at the gesture, and he stared at him for a moment before he glanced at the house. “What did she say to you?” he demanded.

Harry got up from the bench, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you later,” he said, and he looked up as the snow began to fall in earnest once more. A smile touched his lips, and he spun in a slow circle as he stared at the sky. “You know, this is the last Christmas I’ll be able to spend doing nothing much at all. Next year, if I come here to see Narcissa, I’ll have James with me. I bet he’ll love playing in your gardens.”

Draco shifted in his seat, his arse uncommonly cold, and he nodded his head. “Yes, I suppose so. Maybe Astoria will be pregnant by then, and they can play together the Christmas after.”

Harry looked back at him. “You think they’ll be friends?” he asked.

“Oh, probably,” Draco chuckled. “Either that, or they’ll hate each other as much as we did. They can reignite the infamous Potter-Malfoy rivalry. I’ll buy his way onto the Quidditch team and make sure James never gets on.”

“You’d do no such thing,” Harry laughed, and he set his hot chocolate on the bench before he flopped down in the snow and began to wave his arms and legs.

Draco stared at him like he was mad, and he took a drink of his hot chocolate before he set it down. “What on earth are you doing? You’re going to be soaked, Potter, and I’ll not hear a word from Ginny about how you’ve caught your death tumbling around in the snow.”

Harry grinned. “You never made snow angels?” he asked, pausing in his flailing.

“Not since I was five. I grew up; seems you missed the train.”

When Harry stood up abruptly, Draco didn’t think anything of it; his attention was caught, however, when gloved hands reached down and took both of his. His heart leapt into his throat, and he lifted his head to stare at Harry. Harry was staring right back at him, and Draco found it suddenly much more difficult to breathe; it felt like Harry was staring right through him, reading his thoughts, and he was pants at Occlumency—not that Harry would actually use Legilimency against him, of course. “I grew up just fine, Draco.”

Well, Draco wasn’t going to argue with _that_. “I…” His eyes glanced down at Harry’s lips against his will, and he snapped them back up to stare back at him, swallowing hard. “If you’re blind, perhaps.” Insults were his best self-defence, even if that one hadn’t been particularly stellar.

Harry suddenly jerked his hands, pulling Draco to his feet, and Draco squawked, teetering on the edge of his balance before he was shoved unceremoniously into the snow. Harry flopped down next to him and proceeded to flail around again, and Draco stared helplessly at him. “You’re such a prat, Potter. The Chosen One, everyone. Fucking _brilliant_.” Still, he lay on his back and mimicked Potter’s movements, shutting his eyes and letting himself feel five once more.

Maybe Potter needed to feel young right before his life was going to be turned on its head. Maybe he needed to spend a little time with his old rival, romping about in the snow and never knowing that Draco was impossibly in love with him.

Draco thought that Harry really deserved anything he wanted. He’d had such a shit life before the end of the war, so he was allowed to make snow angels and throw snow and be a kid before he had some of his own. If Draco couldn’t have what he really wanted for Christmas, that was just fine, but Harry got to have anything he wanted.

*  
 _24 December, 2004_  


Christmas in prison wasn’t much of a Christmas at all. Gifts sent by family members were rarely received, taken by the guards and claimed to be inappropriate or breaking code. Draco knew what most people asked for for Christmas in that place, though—they just wanted to get out.

He just wanted to get out.

He longed for the days when his Christmas wishes were wasted on frivolous things, such as racing brooms or the love of one Harry Potter, but neither of those things really seemed to matter much when he was locked in a freezing cell and counting his breaths. He was Harry Potter’s friend, and Harry Potter was working on his appeal, but within twelve hours, he’d be lost to the world and nothing he’d ever wanted would come to mind again.

Some people might think that that was a fine Christmas gift, oblivion, but Draco wasn’t one of them.

Appeals were served at midnight, just before the Kisses were administered, and Draco couldn’t hope to know if it had gone through until he was being led to that oblivion by thick manacles on his wrists. He didn’t have much hope, even though his mother had told him to always have hope at Christmas, no matter how ridiculous that hope might be. That hope had led him to believe once that maybe the Dark Lord would leave the manor, another time that Harry Potter would love him back, but today he could only hope that the Kiss would be painless.

That, he thought, would be enough of a gift to satisfy his hope this year.

Still, he’d never thought that it would end like this. All prisoners in Azkaban had hope at one point or another, hope that they would get out or at least survive the experience; he’d seen people’s wishes come true right before his eyes, and he’d seen hopes dashed on the flagstones as appeals failed. That day, on Christmas Eve, he could hear someone crying down the hall, and he leaned his head against the cold and slimy wall, eyelids heavy.

He hadn’t had a choice. His whole life had been plagued by choices being wrenched from his hands, from being forced to do terrible, awful things by other people, and the events leading up to his imprisonment were no different. 

He was going to die because someone else willed it so. He had died in the attempt, but he had succeeded all the same. Draco was condemned.

*  
 _24 December, 2003  
Night_  


No matter how close Draco was to Harry and Ginny, he had no place at a Weasley party. The Burrow was warm and comfortable, and the alcohol flowed freely, but Draco felt completely out of place. He had spent much of his life antagonising everyone in the room, and even though he got on well enough with most of them now, he wasn’t exactly family. Even those outside of the family—mostly Gryffindors—who were there seemed more at home than he did.

He hadn’t wanted to come after his afternoon with Harry in the gardens of Malfoy Manor. Harry had never told him what he and Narcissa had spoken of, and it had put Draco right off his food. He’d taken Harry home and endured Ginny’s hopeless laughter at how soaked they were, then he’d gone back to his own flat and stared at the fire wondering how to get out of it.

He hadn’t had the chance; Harry had come to collect him after sunset, and he was hopeless to resist at that point. He found it harder and harder to say no to anything Harry asked for as they spent more time together; as such, he found himself sitting by himself next to the Weasley hearth, tuning out the varied conversations in the room in favour of the wireless. Molly had a shocking fondness for Celestina Warbeck, and Draco was sure he’d have the biggest headache of his life if he didn’t escape it for a moment.

A quick glance around the room showed that everyone was distracted by everyone else, so he got to his feet and slipped quietly out the front door, mildly alarmed at how much the mead had gone to his head. His feet were a little unsteady, and he fought down the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl at himself, clutching his hand more tightly around the bottle he’d been sipping from all evening as he stepped into the snow and smiled at the cold air.

He made a point of not Apparating while he was drunk, and he’d anticipated getting thoroughly pissed at the party, so he considered the Portkey in his pocket. He glanced back at the window and frowned; he couldn’t go without wishing Harry a happy Christmas, but the last thing he wanted was to go back inside.

He sat on the edge of the porch and took a long drink, staring up at the stars and humming a Christmas carol under his breath. The door opened behind him, but he didn’t look back, simply taking another swig from his bottle and relishing the warmth that spread through his belly. His mouth tasted like honey, and he licked his lips, breath heavy in the air before him. “Draco, what are you doing out here?” Harry’s voice was soft and concerned as the man sat down next to him, and Draco smiled.

“Making my Christmas wishes,” he said quietly. “What are you doing out here?” He glanced over at Harry and looked him over; he looked quite as drunk with his own bottle in hand.

“Catching my breath.” Harry looked down at his bottle—whiskey, Draco noted—and he shook his head. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Me, too.” Draco couldn’t help it; he leaned over against Harry’s shoulder, staring out over the empty yard. “Enjoy it while you can. You’re going to be a father soon; you don’t want to set a dangerous example. No more drinking for you, after this.” He felt Harry’s arm shift to wrap around his shoulders, warm and comforting, and he felt a shocking pit of anger growing in his belly. He quashed it.

There were several moments of silence during which Draco clutched the neck of his bottle so hard he thought he might break it. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. He wanted something to go his way for once, just for fucking once, but it wasn’t going to now or ever, not with Harry. His breath hitched as he fought down his irrationality, and Harry’s arm tightened around his shoulders. “Are you all right?” Harry asked, voice so much closer to his ear than it usually was that Draco crossed his ankles.

“Not really,” he said, too honest, and he took another gulp of mead. He clenched his teeth afterward to keep from saying anything else so stupid.

Silence stretched between them, Draco too afraid to say anything else and Harry, presumably, too drunk to really pay that much attention. Draco couldn’t be sure of that—he didn’t dare look over at him—but he was as certain of it as he could be given the circumstances. What did Harry have to worry about, after all?

“What are you wishing for?” Harry’s words startled him out of his angry trance, and he lifted his head from Harry’s shoulder to look over at him. Harry’s eyes were clear and close, and Draco’s chest ached. “For Christmas, what is it you want?”

Draco clenched his teeth and couldn’t look away from him, feeling uncomfortably hot as the mead worked its way through him. Harry was chewing on his lip, and Draco shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said quietly. “That’s the point of wishes, isn’t it? You can’t say what they are, or you’ll never get them.”

Harry looked away for a moment, then turned back with that same steely resolve Draco had seen on his face before he’d gone to see Narcissa. “Your mother told me,” he said quietly.

“Told you _what_ , exactly? She’s half-mad, Harry. You know that. Ever since Father died—”

“She told me what it is that you want for Christmas.” Draco’s stomach clenched, and he firmly set the bottle of mead on the porch, pulling away from Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m sure she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Harry touched his arm, and Draco looked back at him to see how very sad he looked, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “She didn’t have to tell me,” Harry said quietly. “I already knew. I’m sorry, Draco.”

Draco wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. He clenched his teeth harder to keep his chin steady, and he looked steadily at his hand on the edge of the porch; he watched as Harry’s hand touched it and prised his fingers from their death grip on the wood so he could hold it. “You’re a wonderful friend, Draco. Really. You do so much for me and Ginny. She’s really grateful, too, you know. Really, really grateful for you. We both are.”

Draco’s fingers tightened around Harry’s as he fought down the urge to vomit. “I’m glad,” he said quietly. “I’m grateful, too.” Really, he was; it was just hard to feel it right now. It was hard to feel anything but the excessive amount of mead in his stomach and Harry’s hand on his, gloved and firm. He startled when he felt something else, felt Harry’s hand on his face, and he let him turn his head.

“So, are you going to tell me what it is that you wished for?”

Draco tried not to look at him, honestly he did, but he lifted his eyes to Harry’s and lost all sense. He leaned over and crushed his cold lips to Harry’s, guilt spiking through his belly as he leaned into the kiss and squeezed his eyes shut. He was so lonely, so painfully lonely; he’d thrown so much of his time and energy into being friends with Harry and Ginny, into winning them over and cementing his place in their lives that it distracted him from the fact that he was so desperately lonely despite everything. Astoria didn’t do anything to relieve it, nothing at all.

Harry tasted like whiskey, his lips warm in spite of the cold, and Draco couldn’t begin to explain why Harry didn’t shove him off. Instead, those lips responded in kind, pushing back and parting and angling perfectly against Draco’s; he sucked in a shaky breath through his nose and buried a gloved hand in Harry’s hair to pull him as close as possible, until the cold frames of his glasses were pressing painfully against Draco’s nose.

This was a stupid idea, much too stupid, but Draco couldn’t stop and Harry didn’t seem particularly interested in stopping, either. His hands pulled Draco closer until he was practically on his lap as his tongue teased and prodded against Draco’s in a way that sent all the heat in the pit of Draco’s stomach straight to his cock. Draco moaned and pulled at Harry’s coat, unbuttoning it clumsily and shoving his hands into it; his mind was blissfully blank until he heard someone laughing indoors, and he pulled back with a sharp hiss and looked back at the window.

Ginny’s eyes met his from the couch, and she lifted her glass in a silent toast. _Happy Christmas_ , she mouthed with a slight, sad little smile. She lifted her wand next, and the curtains whisked shut. Draco whipped around to look at Harry, panic blooming in his chest. “Wh-what—?”

“She said it’s been obvious for months,” Harry said quietly, cheeks flushed with the cold or something else that Draco didn’t dare think about. “I’d be lying if it wasn’t something I hadn’t thought about. She’s a Quidditch player, Draco. A famous one. She spends so much time on the road, so we’ve got something of an arrangement.”

“An arrangement.” Draco’s voice was weak. “You have an _arrangement_.”

Harry was the one to take a drink this time. “No falling in love, no pregnancies, and no headlines,” he said quietly. “She trusts you, Draco. I trust you. So I thought that I might give you what you wanted for Christmas.”

There was that anger again, alive and vicious like a snake worming through Draco, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. “I’m already in love with you, Potter,” he said, “so your _arrangement_ isn’t going to work for this, is it?”

Harry didn’t seem to know what to say to that; he gaped openly at Draco, who was balling his fists at his sides. “I thought…” He trailed off and cleared his throat before he tried again. “I just thought—”

“You really didn’t.” Draco was on his feet, faster than anything, and he grabbed his bottle of mead. “I’m going for a fucking walk. D’you fucking mind?”

Harry’s shoulders slumped, and Draco stormed away from the porch before his resolve could crumble. He could see light in the distance, so he stomped through the snow in that direction, drinking from the bottle and shaking in the miserable cold. He didn’t dare look back at the Burrow, squinting his eyes against the snow and trying not to think about what had just happened.

He failed dismally, of course.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of Harry kissing him back, of hands on his waist and in his hair, or the sight of Ginny toasting him and wishing him a happy Christmas after watching him thoroughly snogging her husband. Everything was beyond fucked up. How could they have got it so wrong, to think that he just fancied a shag with the fucking Chosen One, after all the time he’d spent with them? Did they think that he’d be satisfied with a one-and-done?

He was feeding into his anger until his hands shook, until he was flushed and stumbling in the snow towards Ottery St Catchpole in the dark as he cursed Potter and his nonsense. This was worse than an outright rejection; he felt as though they’d dangled Potter in front of him on a fishing line and pulled him just out of reach at the slightest touch.

He was stupid.

They were fucking stupid.

He stumbled into town and looked blearily around for the nearest wizarding tavern; he knew that Ottery St Catchpole had one, and he was pleased to spot it and see that there were lamps lit inside. He walked unevenly down the street, downing the last of his bottle of mead and watching his vision swim; as he came upon the tavern, he stepped briefly into the alley with every intention of having a piss before going indoors.

“Malfoy.”

He was just reaching for his zip when his surname was spoken, uncomfortably close and rough. For a wild moment, he thought that Potter had chased after him to corner him in the alley; when he turned to face him, he instead found a man he didn’t recognise, wand drawn. “Er, yes?”

There was a manic glint in the man’s eye, and he grinned viciously at Draco, who took a step back and remembered with sick dread that he’d left his wand at home. “We don’t take kindly to Death Eaters ‘round these parts, especially ratty little cunts who got off when they should be rotting in Azkaban.”

Draco wanted to open his mouth, to scream for help or to tell the man exactly where he could shove his wand, but there was a flash of red light and he was on his back in the snow, screaming and writhing as pain which was all too familiar ripped through his body. How many times had he endured the Cruciatus Curse? How many times had the Dark Lord, had his aunt Bellatrix or her horrible husband, struck him down before the other Death Eaters?

He vomited in the snow, and the curse lifted as the man standing above him laughed. He laughed and laughed, and Draco’s vision seemed to black out at the edges, until all he could see was that man standing over him.

He stumbled to his feet, feeling as though his body was moving of its own volition, and he smashed his bottle against the brick wall of the tavern. The man before him startled, his mouth beginning to form the two words that would be Draco’s downfall.

Draco never gave him the chance. Wizards never expected anyone to use anything but magic against them. The broken bottle sliced almost too easily through the man’s throat, and Draco was screaming again, thrusting the glass into him over and over and not seeing a bit of it through his haze of terror and pain.

Someone else screamed.

There were hands on his shoulders, and he was jerked to his feet; blood was dripping from his fingers, and he could see broken glass in his hands. He turned his head towards the Burrow, and he wished that he could see it, too.

*  
 _24 December, 2004_  


The last five minutes of Christmas Eve were spent sitting on the edge of his bed, clutching the many letters Harry had written to him. A thousand times, it seemed, harry had apologised for what happened between them that night, for driving Draco away and into the arms of danger. Harry felt guilty, for the man’s death and for Draco’s situation, and Ginny felt just as badly. She’d written, too.

Neither of them had known that Draco was in love with Harry. They’d have never offered if they’d known. If they got him out of there, they said, they could fix it. Everything could go back to the way it was before.

Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to that, back to longing and never having, to looking in on what he wanted. Maybe they could be friends again, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t think it was something he needed to worry about, because in mere moments, he was going to be Kissed, and he wasn’t going to have to think about it ever again.

Some people said that he killed that man in cold blood, and some said that he did it in self-defence. Draco knew the truth of it—he did it because he was scared and angry, because he had been on the wrong end of a wand too many times in his life, and because he was drunk enough to let it get to him. He didn’t remember it very well, but he was sure that it was mostly his fault.

Now, he was going to lose everything he had left to him—admittedly, not much—because he made a mistake.

He was beyond despair. For weeks, the other prisoners had spoken to him beyond his sight. They knew he was going to be Kissed, some of them even seemed to know _him_ , and they had heard him crying. The woman in the cell next to his own had reached her hand through the bars and curled her arm around the divider awkwardly, and he’d clutched it so tightly as she told him about the Midnight Special.

The Midnight Special, she said, was something that prisoners in America looked to for hope. At midnight, a train would pass by the prison, shining its light through the windows and giving them hope for salvation. There were no trains on the island that contained Azkaban prison, but she said that she thought that the Midnight Special was still something that they should cling onto. Even if he was Kissed at midnight, then he would find his own light of salvation in it, find his own escape from this hell.

Whether his appeal came through or not, he was escaping.

“Draco Malfoy.”

A harsh light shone in through the bars of his door, and he looked once more at the letters in his hands. He plucked out the single photograph, of Harry and Ginny and a baby boy, smiling and waving at him, and his heart clenched before he tucked the photograph into his shirt. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and he walked numbly to the bars as they were unlocked, unable to look up at the guard. He stared at his hands as they were pulled forward and his wrists were shackled.

The metal was cold and heavy on his too-thin arms, and he let them fall heavily in front of him. A firm hand took him by the arm and led him out of his cell; he looked around the corridor and saw the other prisoners pressing against their bars, staring out at him.

The guard began to walk, and Draco was prodded into following him, only aware of the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears and the photograph pressing against his chest.

The door to the chamber where he was to receive the Kiss after hearing his sentence once more loomed before them, and the sound of it unlocking sent the corridor into a riot of sound. The prisoners called out to him, praying for him, telling him good luck, to have faith, and he squeezed his eyes closed as he was shoved out of the corridor and into the room.

“Draco Malfoy, you have been sentenced to receive the Kiss for criminal violation of probation by murder in the first degree.”

Draco’s eyes opened, and he lifted his head, squinting through the dim light, certain that he recognised the voice.

“We have the results of your appeal.”

*  
 _Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me.  
Let the Midnight Special shine an everlovin’ light on me._  



End file.
